


Kismet

by orphan_account



Category: Thor (2011)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Jotun!Loki, M/M, freeform poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-08
Updated: 2013-02-08
Packaged: 2017-11-28 14:02:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/675206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is in the summer that he arrives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kismet

It is in the summer  
that he arrives, a warrior,  
bringing with him a flourish,  
a splendid-marvelous growth

of flowers, that danced,  
that waved, that fluttered  
in the wind, petals to the sky  
and rustled by the breeze.

People stop, breaths hitched-  
the golden figure walks;  
he smiles a friendly one  
and greets them all hello.

He requests a room and  
the innkeeper, too dumb-  
-struck  
bobs her head and accepts his coin.

It is in the autumn  
that he meets someone,  
a lonely figure by the lake,  
quiet but so with a sentience,

whose skin is blue and blue  
etched and marked with lines  
whose hair is an inky darkness  
whose eyes glint in the light

bright red and dangerous  
but also  
 _gentle_ ,  
who makes no move when approached.

"Tell me," says he,  
"what is your name?"  
to which the creature replies  
that it is best he does not know.

"Why?" persists the warrior,  
and the creature smiles,  
perhaps also shaking his head.  
"A fool, you are,"

says _it_ musingly,  
and it is an _it_ because _it_ is indescribable,  
for _it_ is fairer than any maiden,  
but far from being one itself.

This is a paradigm:  
the warrior insists again,  
the creature denies again,  
but for some strange reason-

the warrior keeps coming back  
and so does _it_  
when he has tasks to be doing  
when _it_ has a family to return to.

He asks the other villagers  
if they might have seen _it_  
but their eyes go wide  
and they shake their heads, no.

He and  _it_ sit, and they stare,  
the lake dazzling,  
and he would feel close to _it_ ,  
but never quite close enough.

It is in the winter  
that he falls ill  
the first in so many years  
yet he wraps furs around himself

and strives to that lake  
where he knows someone  
is waiting for him,  
like it has always been for

weeks and months now  
and eventually, he hopes,  
 _years_ ,  
for this is his, _their_ , kismet.

"Fool," the creature sneers  
at the mere sight of him,  
but still _it_ draws him close  
and puts a hand over his heart

and he feels a little less ill  
a little less cold  
and he is tempted again  
to ask for a name

but he is content with this,  
with sitting together  
shoulder to shoulder  
so that he can feel the rough

ridges of the markings  
that run across azure skin  
and suddenly he wants to reach out  
and trace them all.

"At least, then," says he,  
"tell me if you have a family?  
"A home?"  
and a laugh bubbles up

from the creature's throat.  
 _It_ shakes its head,  
but also acts distant  
for the rest of the time.

"I am not worthy," _it_ said once,  
"not according to him,"  
to which the warrior replied:  
"You are worthy to me."

It is in the spring  
that a young woman,  
an innocent, murdered and then  
her blood strewn across stone:

preceding the day of another  
murder, this one a man,  
the innkeeper and a dear friend of his,  
lying lifeless in his home.

And by the lake, the figure  
still sits, still waits  
but now with _its_ back hunched  
and face streaked with crimson.

And he, he has no choice  
but to take _it_ by the throat,  
under watch of fearful eyes,  
and demand: "What have you done?"

"Loki," the creature rasps,  
and his hands, stained red,  
(just like his eyes)  
scrabble weakly at his.

"What have you done?" repeats he,  
and the creature shrieks - or maybe wails.  
At the center of the village,  
there sits a long stake.

"This is me," laughs the creature,  
"this is my kind."  
He asks, as he tugs rope tight,  
"Was it worth it?"

And for the longest of times  
there is no answer, and  
it is just like their first meeting:  
silence

but with sentience  
and finally, finally:  
 _it_ murmurs again,  
"Loki."

He steps back;  
it smiles at him wearily.  
"You have my name," it says,  
and the air comes alive with bright,

bright red  
and amidst those hues,  
 _blue_ ,  
a hand that seems to reach out.

It is in the summer  
that he leaves  
and the dirt of the center  
of the village is crisp

and there are no remains,  
and he has no mementos,  
and he can just barely recall the sound  
of _Loki's_ laugh, _Loki's_ voice

and the villagers are calm  
but the lake is deserted  
and there is no figure anymore  
and he can no longer trace marks and ridges

across blue skin.  
And Thor leaves empty-handed, but also not:  
walking with a hand over his heart  
and a name on the tip of his tongue.


End file.
